


Kith & Kin

by tromana



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Gen, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-20
Updated: 2012-07-20
Packaged: 2017-11-10 08:40:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/464354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tromana/pseuds/tromana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death, after all, stalked her in every single aspect of her life. A dark AU fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kith & Kin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sirenofodysseus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirenofodysseus/gifts).



> Written for Iloveplotbunnies aka sirenofodysseus. This piece is as dark as midnight on a moonless night. If that's not your cup of tea, I'd suggest skipping over this one.

She woke suddenly.

There was a distinct tang of iron – no, blood – in the air and she shuddered. Blinking furiously, she carefully sat up as the world around her came into focus.

Blood.

Everywhere.

Glancing at her hands, she slowly flexed her fingers as the sticky liquid coated them. For half a second she was entranced by it. The swirling shades from deep burgundy to bright crimson, there was nothing else like it. Then, she saw beyond her fingertips and to the dead body lying prone in front of her. Instinct told her to scream bloody murder, but she swallowed it down. She always swallowed it down.

This wasn’t the first time she had seen a dead body and she already knew that it wouldn’t be the last.

Death, after all, stalked her in every single aspect of her life.

Slowly, she shifted herself towards the deceased to give it a closer inspection. If nothing else, she was thoroughly intrigued. The woman was young, blonde and prior to her untimely demise, she’d had her whole life in front of her. And, she lay stiff as a board, having been butchered and torn to shreds by some monster.

Automatically, she glanced upwards at the wall above the bed.

No, not some monster.

Red John.

The infamous serial killer who saw no mercy.

He killed like it was some sort of a sport. Or an art form, even.

He was the master manipulator. The purveyor of the base human emotion: fear.

Warily, she stood, thoroughly relieved that her legs held steady. Then, she took three steps backwards before turning and running away.

One question posed in the forefront of her mind: why had this vaguely familiar woman been murdered and she had been spared?

xxx

Come morning, Teresa Lisbon woke to a blinding headache and the sound of her cell phone ringing. Swallowing down a growl, Lisbon answered the call with a hoarse voice. Still, it needed to be done. If Director Bertram was calling her personally, then she knew it couldn’t wait. Any illness, any migraine she was suffering with would have to be shelved until later.

Like always, Bertram was direct to the point. ‘It’s Red John,’ he’d stated, with a hint of sadness in his voice. ‘Your presence is required. Bring Jane.’

Jane.

As if she would even attempt to leave him out of this. Though she tried to deny it, Lisbon knew that Red John was his baby. It always had been; nothing would change about that until the serial killer was apprehended (or killed.) And right now, Lisbon knew that she would have been more than happy to take either solution.

Still she agreed to Bertram’s requests, despite the fact it was a non-issue. Instead, she quickly noted down the details she required. The location of this latest murder was just half an hour away. Lisbon shuddered. Sometimes, it felt like Red John was getting closer and closer. He was practically breathing down their necks.

And worse: they were happening with an increasing regularity.

xxx

Jane was in a somber mood when she picked him up. That was hardly surprising; she had been brutally honest with him from the offset. With Jane, there was little point in being anything but. He could see through practically any lie she could care to imagine.

But even Jane wasn’t completely infallible.

The journey over to the crime scene felt painfully slow. Miles dragged on, just as the silence that had enveloped them from the moment that the ‘hello’ she would have uttered died on her lips. There was no logical reason for time to distort in such a way. The roads were still clear; the early morning rush hour traffic had yet to emerge.

Except, there was still one less than logical reason for it: dread.

Dread of what she would discover when she got there. Dread of how close Red John could be as a consequence. Dread of what kind of effect that this would inevitably have on Patrick Jane.

The area had already been cordoned off and the coroner had already arrived by the time they eventually reached their destination. Instinctively, Lisbon hopped over the yellow tape and flashed her badge at the local LEO. The poor man looked as though he was merely loitering and was clearly out of his depth. Without a word, he let her straight through.

The front door had been left ajar and she nudged it open. Jane was on her heels, but neither of them said a word. What could she say to him, anyway? I’m sorry, I understand, I know? Some things were best left unsaid.

When she was finally in the master bedroom, staring at the dead body, Lisbon could only think of one thing: ‘it’s not déjà vu, but I’m sure, I’ve been here before.’

xxx

The words were blurring together on her computer screen.

That was hardly surprising; she was running on empty, after all. However, as far as Lisbon was concerned, that was no excuse. Everyone was working tirelessly hard and she was no exception. They had all been stretched to their wit’s end and naturally, she had to continue leading by example.

It didn’t make it any less difficult, however.

The migraine that had made itself known in the early hours of the morning was back in full force. She blinked one, two, three times, in attempt to rid herself of the aura, but it was to no avail. Everything that was written on the screen was a wordless jumble.

_‘Take the cell phone out of your desk,’_ a voice mumbled through the haze, startling her.

Warily, Lisbon glanced over her shoulder. Nobody was there. Frowning, she ignored the instruction and continued to type. The honeyed tones, male, if she wasn’t mistaken, repeated themselves, more urgently this time. Lisbon’s frown simply deepened as she continued with her assigned task.

_‘Now, I said,”_ he (or, so she assumed) eventually demanded.

“Why?” she asked; half of her was wondering if she really wanted a response.

_‘It’s a matter of life or death?’_ the voice countered.

“Is it?” Of course, she had to question. It was practically in her job description to do so.

_‘Can’t you feel the gun in the small of your back?’_

She froze. There it was - the cool circular sensation of the barrel of a gun. Lisbon went to look over her shoulder, but the voice told her otherwise. With a swift motion, she drew the device slowly out and began to type out the message. As she pressed send, she felt cold, empty. Slowly, she placed the cell phone back in her drawer beside the tequila bottle.

_‘Go to sleep now, Agent Lisbon,’_ the voice soothed. _‘You’ve done a good job.’_

Reluctantly, she followed instructions. She was sound asleep before her head hit her desk.

xxx

When she woke, the pounding in her temples had yet to disappear.

Lisbon glanced nervously at the clock and wondered where the past five hours had gone to.

Then, she questioned why nobody had dared to disturb her.

The fact that she couldn’t even remember what she was doing prior to sleeping unnerved her further.

Still, there was nothing she could do about that. It was probably just the fact she had overworked and was overtired. These things could be rectified later. She couldn’t change the past, however much she wished that she could.

Instead, for now, it was time to go home.

There was nothing productive that she could do on the case at three seventeen a.m. anyway.

xxx

She dreamed of blood.

Once upon a time, when she had been a small girl, they had scared her. Never had she told a soul about her nightly visions; if she dared to do so, then she would have been shipped from psychiatrist to shrink and back again as they tried to find a solution. After all, no young (and sane) young girl should have been haunted by the macabre.

Now, she’s kind of used to it.

xxx

The hammering at her front door woke her with a start. Lisbon muttered incoherently and allowed her head to flop back into her pillows as it stopped. It was far too early and it seemed that the person had got the message.

Or, they had picked the lock and let themselves in.

And if it was the latter, then there was only one plausible person responsible: Jane.

She pulled on her bathrobe with a sigh before padding downstairs. When she saw him pouring out two cups of tea, she sighed. Normally, she would have lectured him on how breaking and entering was a felony. He’d make some blithe comment in return to justify his actions, and then they would return to normal. As a consequence, the words died on her lips and she thanked him for the tea. Her tea; he hadn’t bothered to bring his own. Then again, she only really kept it in her cupboards for him anyway.

There had always been unwritten rules in their relationship and the presence of tea at all times was one of them.

They sat in a companionable silence; it unnerved her. This was completely disjointed to the urgency he had portrayed when he had tried to pummel her door down with just his fists. However, she didn’t question it. Jane and weirdness went hand in hand. Instead, she waited until he felt the need to speak/

The words never came.

Instead, he pushed his cell phone forwards.

Wordlessly, she picked it up and read the message onscreen.

It was a threat from Red John. Of course it was; she surmised. What else was it ever going to be?

xxx

“The number has been cut off,” Van Pelt confirmed dryly. “We can’t trace it.”

“Damn,” Lisbon muttered under her breath.

She’d expected as much from the moment that Jane had showed her the text message. Red John would never have risked being caught over something as pointless as this. All he’d been doing was sticking the knife into Jane and twisting it a little bit further. The sadomasochist derived pleasure purely from taunting Jane, that much was obvious.

But why had he bothered to do it now? The case was still in the early stages. Though they had identified the victim – an Amber Matthews – they were yet to discover the reason Red John had chosen her as his latest victim.

Lisbon watched warily as Jane disappeared from the bullpen, presumably to his attic hideaway. She didn’t bother to follow him; he needed the space to mull this over. They all did. Instead, she thanked Van Pelt for her tireless hard work, turned on her heels and headed towards her office.

If she could find out the reason that Amber had died, then maybe, it would give them a chance to get half a step closer to Red John.

xxx

All Lisbon could discover was that the girl happened to be the receptionist at a doctor’s surgery.

Specifically, the doctor’s surgery that she, herself, attended.

She sighed; she had thought the face had been fairly familiar.

xxx

_‘Destroy Van Pelt’s computer,’_ the voice crowed.

“Why would I want to do something like that?”

She hadn’t expected to hear the man’s voice again so soon and she was startled. Lisbon didn’t bother even trying to look over her shoulder this time around; he had her well trained. However, she couldn’t help but wonder why she was being stalked by him, why he enabled her (rare) violent tendencies.

Why he needed her to behave in such a way.

_‘There’s evidence on it,’_ he explained, with a tone that suggested his patience was quickly wearing thin. _‘It ties you to me. Do you really want your position to be compromised? Does your job really mean so little to you?’_

The bullpen was empty by the time she plucked up the courage to walk through. Not even the cleaners were present, doing their nightly rounds. Lisbon breathed a sigh of relief; she was glad that she had chosen to give the rest of the team a much needed early night. Steeling herself, she closed her eyes tightly before she dared to push the computer off the desk.

She fainted before the device even crashed to the ground.

xxx

“It’s just for observation, Lisbon. Stop complaining,” Jane instructed as she grumbled irritably.

“I only fainted; I didn’t need to be rushed to hospital.”

“Hm,” he said indistinctly and Lisbon rolled her eyes. He hadn’t even bothered to honor her with an actual word in reply.

“There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“Let’s let the doctors come to that conclusion, shall we?”

She rested her head back on the pillow and stared at the ceilings. Lisbon loathed hospitals with every fiber of her being. All too often, the doctors complained about her being difficult because she was a police officer, they were all like it. She never meant to behave like that; she just hated wasting medic’s time over something as inconsequential as this. It would have been like some civilian giving her information about a case in good faith, but it turning out to be a red herring.

Jane soon disappeared, only to be replaced with a doctor with a kindly face. He probed her gently, but it felt wary, uncomfortable, even. What had she been doing before she fainted? No idea. Who was the last person she saw? She couldn’t remember. Where had she been? Even that remained a mystery.

All she could recall was waking up in the hospital and wondering what the hell had happened.

Jane had already told her about the destroyed laptop, that they were dusting it for prints. She couldn’t even recall if she had watched it being slammed to the ground, or if she had discovered it smashed to pieces before she collapsed. Everything about it had been completely blacked out.

Then again, blackouts weren’t something she was unfamiliar with.

They had taunted her for much of her adult life.

Not that she had ever dared tell a soul, however.

xxx

She was sitting on her couch at home when Rigsby called by. Her boss had given her mandatory leave; it didn’t matter that they were in the middle of an important case. They could manage without her. And besides, it was looking increasingly likely that Red John was going to slip through their fingers once again.

“There were no foreign fingerprints on the laptop, boss,” Rigsby informed her over a mug of steaming hot coffee. “Just yours, Van Pelt’s, Jane’s and Ron’s.”

Lisbon nodded. They were all people likely to use that particular computer anyway. In a way, it was a relief. However, it was also frustrating. A dead end like that just brought everything back to a grinding halt. In spite of that, there was still the possibility that the perpetrator could have been found.

On camera.

“What about the surveillance cameras. Did they?”

“Nothing,” Rigsby interrupted; he’d expected this question. “Security had run out of blank tapes; they’re getting more in stock tomorrow. They didn’t think it would matter for twenty-four hours or so. The cameras alone are usually enough of a deterrent.”

She scowled. Of course that was going to happen; of course the oversight was going to occur just when they needed it the most. Lisbon made a mental note to have a word with Hoffner, the head of security, the moment she was allowed back to work. There had been no need for them to run out of blank tapes; they should have kept on top of their orderings.

Instead of telling Rigsby this, she thanked him for letting her know and promptly let him out.

xxx

_‘Patrick Jane is worried about you.’_

“I know.”

_‘The only person whose death will affect him as much as his wife is yours,’_ he continued softly.

“I know,” she repeated.

_‘There’s a knife in the bottom drawer of your bedside cabinet. Use it.’_

“Are you really suggesting I commit suicide?”

_‘It’s either that, or I speed the process up. Your choice, Agent Lisbon,’_ he stated impassively _._

Again, she could feel the presence of his gun in the center of her back. As she climbed upstairs, she stumbled over her own two feet. A tear threatened to emerge from the corner of her left eye, but she blinked it back. Instead, she began to recite the Hail Mary prayer, words she had always been familiar with. There had to be a way out of this, there had to.

When she located the knife, there was still blood congealed on the blade. Whose, she couldn’t be sure.  For now, she ignored it and continued to follow the man’s instructions. Slowly, she drew the blade along the inside of her lower arm, just deep enough to allow pearls of blood to come to the surface. Then, she faced the wall directly opposite the bedroom door.

Carefully, she drew a large circle, followed by two small curved lines. A larger one quickly followed underneath, until a perfect smiley face leered back at her.

Drawn in her own blood.

_‘Lay on your bed and roll up your shirt.’_

“I don’t want to do this.”

_‘There’s no other way. You’re in too deep.’_

“But…” she protested.

_‘Do it!’_

Eventually she did so. Almost as though she had no free will, she poised the knife above her own abdomen.

When the knife swiftly pierced the skin, she let out a pained scream of agony.

xxx

She didn’t fall unconscious, but she came to her senses moments later.

The blood was seeping out of her and without having to think, she yanked off her shirt and bundled it up into some sort of a compress. It didn’t help the pain, but it did stem the flow of blood.

Lisbon knew that she needed to move, to seek medical attention.

But she could also remember more, about how she had found herself in this situation.

There were voices in her head; there always had been. They made her do unspeakable things and promptly blanked them out afterwards.

And there was a reason she could never catch up with Red John.

There was a reason he was always two steps ahead, ran circles around the authorities. There was a reason he was far too clever by half and that she couldn’t see into the web of lies and deceit that he had knitted.

How could she remember it, when she actively eradicated it from her memory banks?

Teresa Lisbon would never catch Red John. She’d never be able to arrest him, to put him on death row.

She _was_ Red John.


End file.
